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Robert Tannahill

 

 

                                                                               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                       

 

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The Defeat Of The French

 

Tune—“Enrolled in our bright annals, lives.”

 

From hill to hill the bugles sound
The soul-arousing strain,
The war-bred coursers paw the ground,
And foaming, champ the rein.
Their steel-clad riders bound on high,
A bold defensive host ;
With valour fired, away they fly,
Like lightning, to the coast.

 

And now they view the widespread lines
Of the invading foe ;
Now skill with British bravery joins,
To strike one final blow,
Now on they rush with giant stroke,
Ten thousand victims bleed :
They trample on the iron yoke
Which France for us decreed.

 

Now view the trembling vanquish'd crew
Kneel o'er their prostrate arms,
Implore respite of vengeance, due
For all these dire alarms.
Now, while Humanity's warm glow,
Half weeps the guilty slain,
Let conquest gladden every brow,
And godlike mercy reign.

 

Thus fancy paints that awful day,
Yes, dreadful, should it come;
But Britain's sons, in stern array,
Shall brave its darkest gloom.
Who fights, his native rights to save,
His worth shall have its claim ;
The Bard will consecrate his grave,
And give his name to fame.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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